I previously shared with you a story about driving for the Fort Benning Post Confinement Facility. Well, it turns out that when it rains it pours. And you really have to walk a fine line between setting a good example and performing well when on loan to external units and performing too well. What do I mean? Well, if you perform well and set a good example while on loan to external units, your unit leadership is going to hear about it. That also means you’re going to hear about it in a positive way. However, if you perform too well, your unit leadership is also going to hear about it, but in a slightly different way. The external unit will request you by name each time they have an external loan tasking. Sometimes that’s good, sometimes, well… You catch my drift? Anyway, whenever a particular NCO over at the Post Confinement Facility had Sergeant-of-the-Guard duty for the soldiers performing extra duty, he requested me to drive for him, by name. Great. Just peachy. Don’t get me wrong. Most days, driving for what I believe was called the Central Confinement Facility (CCF), was good duty. The only days (day) I really didn’t especially care to do it was Wednesday. I think you know why if you’ve read my previous posts. Nichol Night at Nichol’s Alley, of course. So, I became a semi-regular driver for the CCF, which, for the most part, was okay with me. One morning, while driving for the CCF, the Sarge and I were headed over to Victory Pond with the soldiers to perform duty. Enroute, we were traveling downhill toward a narrow bridge just before a curve in the road. Approaching from the other side of the bridge coming into the curve was a 10-ton low-boy hauling an M60A3 Tank. The tractor-trailer rig was moving way too fast to negotiate the curve so I stopped my truck to watch. This was either going to be fun or disastrous, and I wasn’t sure which. I was positive that the driver of the other rig had to have driven this road before, so he should have known about the hill, the curve, and the narrow bridge. But cockiness always trumps intelligence in situations like this, and stupidity shines forth even in the darkest depths of ignorance. I would have loved to have seen the look on that driver’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make the turn onto the bridge. No, sir. He just did not have enough brake and enough luck. You could hear the Jake brake singing and the tires squealing, even where we were sitting. All of the soldiers in the back of my truck wanted to get out and watch the show, so the Sarge let them. This was going to be good. One helluva crash. Sure enough. Yes, sir. One to write home about. This was a keeper. The trailer jackknifed, and the chains holding the tank snapped like overtightened rubber bands. Then, the tank was airborne. It went sailing off of the trailer, over the bridge and into the creek below, nose and turret tube first. The tank came to a rest and was perched almost straight up and down in the muddy creek with its tail-end sticking up in the air. The trailer wound up on its side in the ravine next to the creek-bed after barely missing the bridge. The tractor was not so lucky. It careened into the bridge railing several times before lurching to a stop midway across the bridge. The Sarge told me to go down and find out if anyone was injured. I walked down to the bottom of the hill and out onto the bridge to the tractor. The door had just opened and out stepped PVT Johnson. I knew this guy. What the hell? I walked over and asked, “Hey Johnson, are you okay? That was one helluva wreck.” “Yeah. I guess, I misjudged the curve and the slope of the hill.” “You think? Man, check out that tank, dude. That was a kodak moment when it went sailing off of the trailer into the creek. One helluva show. Nobody is going to believe how this happened.” “Well, what are you going to say happened?” “Come-on Johnson, you know me. I’m going to describe it exactly the way I saw it. Sort of like this: Brrrrrrrrm! Brrrrrrrrm! Squeal, Screech! Brrrrrrrrm! Brrrrrrrrm! Snap, Snap, Snap, Snap, Snap, Snap! Doink! Splash! Kablam! Screech! Bam, Bam, Bam! The end. Yeah, that’s pretty much how it happened. Any questions?” “You’re a son-of-a-bitch, Masters.” “Now, that’s not nice, Johnson. I’d just be describing what I saw in excruciating detail.” “Yeah. That’s what I mean. You’re a son-of-a-bitch. What are the others going to say?” “I don’t have a clue because the Sarge sent me down here to find out if anyone got hurt as soon as your truck stopped moving. But judging by how hard they’re laughing, I’d say they enjoyed the show, too. If you want, I can go up and ask them?” “No thanks, can you go get help?” “Sure, but I’ll have to take the long way around since this way is blocked.” “Alright, then.” So, I headed back across the bridge and up the hill to my truck. I told the Sarge that we would have to report the accident once we got over to Victory Pond. And I realized as we moved out that our trip the long way around to Victory Pond was just another exercise in futility. But the next day when Johnson knocked my hat off of my head and I had to chase it, I guess that wasn’t such an exercise in futility after all.
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